


The Arrangement

by inthrall



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Gags, Gunplay, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Post-Season/Series 11 AU, Prostitution, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10437186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthrall/pseuds/inthrall
Summary: When Locus reveals to Wash that he has information about the status of his teammates, Wash will do anything to find out if they're safe. Wash quickly finds himself drawn into Locus's dark and twisted world with no end in sight.Tucker, meanwhile, finds himself drawn into Felix's web, all the while trying to solve the mystery of the Federal Army of Chorus, and where his friends are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you’ve seen those tags, so you should be well aware of what you’re about to read, but here’s your final warning: this fic contains GRAPHIC descriptions of non-con, dub con, and a whole bunch of other filthy smut. there is nothing healthy, fluffy, or wholesome about the locington and tucklix here. there is also implied lolix, and the tuckington is endgame. you’ve been warned. onward to the smutfest.

“They’re fine,” Wash says again, looking at his own plate.

“Humph,” Sarge mutters. Sarge looks ancient, curled over his own meal, stabbing at it and muttering darkly to himself, as if his MRE is Felix’s face.

Donut shakes his head miserably as he pokes at his food.

It’s been a long few weeks with the Federal Army; and through all of it there’s been a resounding silence in response to their friends. The war has dragged on so long, it seems, because the Feds have no idea where the Rebels  _ are _ . They don’t know where Felix lured the others, or what he’s been saying to convince them.

They don’t even know if they’re  _ alive _ . Locus and the Feds who’d been with him at the crash site had done a fair share of damage. It was possible there had been …injuries.

Or worse.

“The rebels want them to work with them,” Wash says, as much to himself as to Sarge. “They wouldn’t hurt them.”

Donut stares at him with gigantic eyes, and Wash has to look away.

Sarge tries to stab the table with his fork. “Agent Washington! What kind of nonsense have you been listening to? Our boys are out there somewhere! Grif’s probably asleep! Simmons is probably panicking! Who knows what Caboose has managed to blow up!”

“No news is good news, Sarge?” Donut tries to offer, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

“Damn it, Donut! No news is most certainly _ not  _ good news!” He points at them both. “That Felix was a twitchy sonuva bitch and you heard what he said! A freelancer! And we all know how spending time with one of those goes down!”

“Someone gets shot!” Donut says cheerfully.

Wash shifts uncomfortably, unable to look at either of them.

“That’s right Donut!” Sarge nods. “I’ve been hearing nasty things about that orange feller, and I don’t like the idea of him being near any of them one bit!”

All at once, Wash’s appetite is gone. “I need to go,” he mumbles. “I... I’ve got training.”

“Bye Wash!” Donut waves at him as he leaves.

He leaves the mess hall, trying to figure out what he’s going to do now. Doyle has been using him to train some of the younger Federal soldiers, but he doesn’t have training right now. He has nothing but free time on his schedule for the next two hours. He should talk to Doyle about filling his time—he can’t be idle this long. He needs something to  _ do _ . Otherwise, all those things Sarge said will worm his way into his head and eat at him.

Because they  _ don’t _ know anything. Wash has been hearing the same rumors about Felix as the others have.

That’s all they have. Rumors.

Wash would do almost anything for something more.

* * *

_ The sun is so bright and Tucker is standing on the top of a hill overlooking the crash site. His aqua armor is unscratched and gleaming, but his helmet’s not in sight, so his hair shines in the light of this perfect day. _

_ Tucker grins cockily at Wash when he spots him. “Hey Wash, check out this sweet move.” Pulling out his sword in a smooth motion, he does an action pose like one of the low-budget costumed hero shows Wash used to watch when he was a kid, and Wash feels so fond suddenly that it hurts. _

_ Wash rushes up the hill to meet him, but the path gets longer and longer. The atmosphere thickens like he’s walking through molasses, and he slows down. There’s a foreboding mood and he almost expects the sky to darken, but it stays light and perfect outside and Tucker is watching him with some amusement. “You getting old, dude?” _

_ “That’s funny,” Wash says dryly, panting at the top of the hill. _

_ “Yeah, the hard-ass is getting rusty. It’s hilarious. Felix thinks it’s funny too.” _

_ The mercenary steps out from behind a rocky outcropping and his helmet is in place, visor shining and unreadable. Dangerous. “It’s pretty hilarious,” he says smugly. _

_ “Felix.” The anxiety doesn’t leave him. He needs to warn Tucker. “Tucker, there’s something you don’t know about Felix. You can’t trust him.” _

_ “Dude, what are you _ talking  _ about?” Tucker rolls his eyes. “Felix saved us.” _

_ “Yeah,  _ Wash. _ Quit being so melodramatic.” Felix comes up behind Tucker, and Tucker doesn’t resist when he wraps his arm around Tucker’s waist. After a quick squeeze, he puts his finger to the front of his helmet like he’s saying,  _ shhhh. _ His other hand holds a nine inch combat knife already shining with blood.  _

_ Wash wonders where Caboose is. _

_ “Tucker—!” The resistance in the air isn’t enough to stop Wash from moving forward this time, but he only reaches them in time to see all nine inches of the blade go straight through a gap in the abdomen of Tucker’s armor.  _

_ Felix laughs and lets him go, pulling the knife back out with a sick slurp. _

_ Tucker drops his sword, the light disappearing as it hits the ground. His eyes are betrayed and disbelieving and looking at Wash like Wash can fix this for him. Like Wash had picked up their broken pieces from the crash site. Like he was supposed to get them rescued. _

_ “Oh god.” Not Tucker, no.  _

_ Blood bubbles out of Tucker’s mouth when he tries to speak, his mouth opening and closing with little gasps. _

_ With an involuntary jerk starting from his wound, Tucker goes to his knees. Wash falls forward to catch him, and his weight is so heavy slumped against him. _

_ “Oh god, Tucker no.” _

_ Felix is still there. Could kill Wash next, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He _ failed _. All that matters is—Tucker, Tucker,  _ Tucker...

_ Wash is wearing armor, but Tucker’s blood is flowing hot and he can feel it running over him. His chest, his arms, his hands… soaking everything. _

* * *

Wash wakes up shaking and soaked in sweat. He practically falls out of bed, breathing heavily. 

“Just a dream,” he tells himself. 

Just a dream. 

A dream that could very well be reality. 

Wash forces himself out of bed, struggling into his undersuit. This is far from the first time that he’s had that nightmare, and he’ll probably have it again soon enough.  He starts to put on his armor, but the walls of his room are starting to close in on him. So he pushes open the door and stalks out.  A walk will clear his head. 

The base is quiet at night; a skeleton patrol goes around the base, but Wash doesn’t encounter any of them.  It leaves Wash to his thoughts. This lack of knowledge is starting to eat away at him from the inside out. His mind keeps replaying that decision, that moment. 

Maybe, just maybe, if he hadn’t done that, hadn’t ordered Freckles to shake, things wouldn’t be like this. Maybe Tucker would be here with him—with  _ them _ —now. Instead of haunting Wash’s nightmares, being murdered by Felix every night. 

He turns a corner and finally encounters someone. 

Wash goes still as he spots Locus, lingering in the nearby shadows, almost as if he was waiting for Wash. 

“Agent Washington,” Locus nods at him in way of greeting.

“Locus,” Wash says, tense. He regrets, now, not getting into his full armor before leaving his room. “I hadn’t realized you were back already.” Locus was supposed to be on a scouting mission for a few days still; Wash has been keeping careful track of where Locus is at all times. He still doesn’t trust him, not one bit.

“I recovered some intelligence on your teammates, Agent Washington.” Wash’s spine stiffens.

“What is it?” He demands. “Do you know where they are?”

Wash gets the distinct impression that Locus is smirking at him beneath the expressionless helmet. “Walk with me, Agent Washington.” He then turns his back on Wash, striding down the hallway. Cursing, Wash rushes to catch up, nearly having to run to meet Locus’s long strides.

Locus leads him away, maneuvering the twisting corridors with confidence while Wash tries to remember which way they turn so he’ll be able to make his way back to the others once he has the information. Wash hasn’t been to this part of the base before, but the promise of information on the others makes him willing to keep going forward, even though his instincts scream against being alone with Locus.

He’s armed, at least, even if he doesn’t have his rifle. He has his pistol with him at his side and his knives are in their sheaths. Not that he thinks Locus will try anything—the man wouldn’t do anything to risk his paycheck. But it soothes his nerves. He doesn’t like being so close to Locus. 

Finally, Locus stops walking. He pushes open a door, and Wash sees that it leads into some sort of office space. It’s small and sparsely decorated; there’s a desk facing the door, and a weapon’s bench, but not much else.

This is Locus’ office, Wash realizes. He hadn’t realized that the merc  _ had  _ an office, although he supposes it made sense. Doyle has one somewhere; Grey has one in the infirmary, and Locus is as much a part of the Federal hierarchy as either of them. 

Wash wonders what kind of information Locus has that he wants to tell him in private at this hour, instead of sharing it with Doyle first and waiting until morning.

The door falls close behind them as Locus leads him into the office. There’s no chairs for visitors; clearly, Locus doesn’t like company here. Locus turns to face Wash.

“What did you find?” Wash asks, feeling his heart speed up.

“Later,” Locus says. He picks up a datapad from his desk. “First, I would like to discuss payment.”

“Payment?” Wash echoes, incredulous. “You have  _ got  _ to be kidding me. I don’t even know if what you have is real, and you expect—”

The datapad in Locus’s hand comes to life, and Wash cuts himself off with a strangled noise as Tucker appears on the screen.

“What is this?”

“There was a disturbance at one of our further out bases, earlier this week.” 

Wash watches, mesmerized, as he sees Tucker move across the ground outside the building. He looks okay, Wash thinks. He looks… he’s moving differently, Wash doesn’t know what it is—confidence, maybe.

The sound of gunfire goes off, and Tucker staggers backwards, shouting. Wash sees something red against the teal of Tucker’s armor.

Wash jerks back as the screen turns off.

“There,” Locus says. “The information, as you see, is real.”

“And you’re not taking this to Doyle because...?” Wash’s heart is hammering in his ears.  _ Tucker _ . Fear crawls over his skin. Tucker had to make it out of there, right? Locus is just trying to get him to agree to whatever it is he wants, right? 

“The General barely has the resources to afford my combat expertise,” Locus says. “This information goes beyond the description of my contract.”

Wash keeps his face still. “So why bring it to me?”  _ Tucker, Tucker, Tucker _ .

“I believed you would be interested, and willing to pay. If I was wrong…” He makes to leave.

“No!” Wash blurts out, unable to stop himself.

Locus stills, and suddenly Wash gets the impression that Locus is smiling.

“I… I don’t have money.” Wash hates how he sounds. Desperate. Locus has to know exactly how badly Wash needs to know. He’s shown his hand. 

“I am aware. However, I believe you would be willing to provide some services that would be an acceptable form of payment.”

“What do you want?” Wash makes himself ask.

Locus sets the datapad down, then looks at Wash. Wash feels his skin prick in awareness of how Locus is examining every inch of him.

“On your knees, Agent Washington,” Locus says.

For a moment, Wash doesn’t move, confused by the statement.

But then understanding sinks in, and he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

He nearly walks away. But he remembers Tucker in the video, thinks about Caboose and Grif and Simmons, thinks about Donut and Sarge wondering where their friends are, and he finds his resolve.

Wash wipes his face blank, pushing aside everything—his worry for Tucker, his indecision, his disgust—and drops to his knees. He’s wearing the bottom half of his armor, and it hits the steel floor hard, making the sound ring with a strange finality.

Locus approaches him, each step deliberate. He takes Wash’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts his face up towards him.

“Your performance will determine the payment, Agent Washington.” Locus says. Wash grits his teeth, receiving the message loud and clear.

“Understood,” he says. Locus’s thumb brushes against Wash’s bottom lip for a moment before he drops Wash’s chin.

Locus removes the armor from his thighs and his codpiece. Wash swallows again as he sees Locus’s erection, and tries to prepare himself for what he knows will be coming next.

Locus grabs his hair, the ridges of his gauntlets digging into Wash’s scalp, and pulls Wash forward until his closed lips bump against Locus’s cock. 

“Open,” Locus orders, and Wash closes his eyes.  _ For Tucker _ .

He opens his mouth and lets Locus thrust in.

It’s been awhile since Wash has done anything like this. He leaves his hands at his sides, almost wishing he wasn’t wearing his gloves so he could dig his nails into his palms or something— _ anything _ —to distract him from this.

Wash scrambles to remember how this is supposed to work as Locus growls and pulls him forward by the hair. Wash tries not to choke, finally dragging his tongue along the cock in his mouth, trying desperately not to think what Tucker would think if he saw Wash like this. On his knees, still in half his armor, sucking off Locus, who’d probably snap Wash’s neck in a heartbeat if he didn’t have orders otherwise.

_ I’m doing this for him—for  _ them. _ For all of them. _

Locus tugs on Wash’s hair, just hard enough to be painful, and Wash takes the hint, swirling his tongue around the head of Locus’s dick. Locus is quiet, which Wash is vaguely grateful for, but it makes things difficult, because Wash isn’t sure he’s doing anything  _ right _ .

Locus thrusts again, and Wash does choke this time, unable to keep his throat relaxed for a moment before he finds it again. He pants for air, because Locus isn’t pulling away, and desperately hollows his cheeks and bobs his head, hoping that this will all be over soon. Locus grunts, the first possible sign that Wash is doing something right, and Wash keeps going. Locus loosens his grip on Wash’s hair, giving Wash more freedom of movement, and Wash takes advantage as best he can, moving his mouth up and down Locus’s length, digging into his memories to try to remember what he’s supposed to do.

Eventually, Locus pulls him forward again, not far enough to choke him this time, and Wash winces as Locus comes, hips snapping forward as Wash splutters, forcing himself not to try to push Locus’s hands away. Wash has no choice but to swallow it down, trying to act like it doesn’t disgust him.

Finally, Locus withdraws, standing back to look at Wash. Wash stays on his knees, not willing to move until Locus says something. He wonders what Locus sees as he stares at him.

“Satisfactory, I suppose,” Locus finally says. 

Wash’s cheeks flush, although he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he  _ cares  _ what Locus thinks about his technique.

Locus picks up his datapad and swipes at something. “There,” he says simply, before reaching down to retrieve his discarded armor. Wash scrambles for his own datapad, and pulls it up, barely remembering to get to his feet first.

He watches the first few seconds of the video before he pauses it. He stares at Locus, mouth dry. “This isn’t the file you showed me.”

“It is confirmation that one of your friends is alive, Agent Washington,” Locus says. “Like I said.” He reaches out and grabbed Wash’s chin again. Wash forces himself not to pull away. “The performance determined the payment.”

Wash feels sick to his stomach. “And… the rest of the information?”

Locus tilts his head. He still hasn’t let go of Wash’s chin. “I suppose you’ll have more chances to earn it.”

Wash closes his eyes. So that was his game. “When?” He makes himself ask.

He gets the distinct impression Locus is smiling. “I’ll contact you tomorrow, Agent Washington.” Locus sits down in the chair behind his desk. “Close the door on your way out.”

Wash leaves, trying to ignore the foul taste in his mouth and self-hatred surging through his veins.  _ Caboose is alive, _ he repeats. At least he knows that now. One of them is safe. 

It isn’t until several hours later, when Wash opens his schedule on his datapad, that what he’s gotten himself into starts to sink in. For as far as he can see, there’s a time blocked off each afternoon. There’s no name, no location, but he knows as clearly as if Locus had told him, what it is. 

He could scroll further, see how long Locus has laid claim, but he doesn’t want to. Instead, he just turns on the video again, and watches the footage of Caboose on the back of the warthog again and again, until he’s relaxed enough to go back to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

After Tucker’s resolve to get Wash and the rest of the Reds back, he notices that Felix starts looking at him differently. In the canyon crash site it was more of a… subtle, unimpressed laugh that was just barely there. Tucker was used to that, was okay with it, knows what to do with it. He knows the Reds and Blues aren’t anything special, knows that they’re all goofy fuckups, and anyone who’s ever met with them longer than a minute knows it too.

So when Felix starts with the approving nods and the interested glances, Tucker can’t help but feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t understand when Felix asks him to go over stakeout plans and discusses drills with him. Asks him questions like Tucker actually knows anything about  _ conditioning _ , or  _ strategy…  _ Things that Wash would know.

And that’s the crux of the problem isn’t it? If Wash was here, this wouldn’t be an issue. Tucker could just sit back and make shitty jokes and undermine authority a little and maybe bring some laughter back into these rebel’s faces and Wash could be the hardass CO who shouts orders and runs drills and has to deal with shitty subordinates like  _ Palomo _ .

But he’s not here. 

He’s probably in a dingy, dirty cell getting the shit beat out of him or worse…

Tucker can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop picturing with perfect clarity the way Sarge is clutching broken ribs from that fucking concussive blast gun thing that Locus shot him with, how Donut’s old makeup is a big runny mess from crying, how Wash…

Why does it hurt so much to think about Wash?

The thoughts intrude on him randomly throughout the day. He’ll be in the middle of yelling at some teen who forgot to turn their rifle’s safety off and his voice will pitch  _ just so  _ and then — it’s just like Wash yelling at him again (Is he yelling now? Or is he being dramatically stoic while the Feds torture him for information?). He’ll be talking to Kimball and he’ll say something like “strategically defensible” and feel like he’s mimicking someone who’s not there. He’ll see Caboose do something dumb and want to snark but when he turns there’s no steel-gray armor.

It’s driving him up the wall. On top of the bullshit fact that it was now on  _ him,  _ (and Grif, and Simmons, and Caboose) to make sure the Rebels survive this seemingly unwinnable war, the weirdness of Felix treating him with something like  _ respect _ , all these expectations.... It’s too much. It’s too much… And his usual distraction, his usual method of stress relief was — well. Also constantly interrupted with thoughts of Wash getting electrocuted, getting his fingernails pulled out, being beaten to a pulp, et cetera. Tucker is quickly finding out that there’s no better boner-killer in the world than guilt.

And it’s been  _ week  _ of this, so when Grif makes an admittedly tasteless quip about Sarge not being around, Tucker blows up. He can feel hot tears stinging the edge of his vision, and thank God he’s got his helmet on, because everyone’s staring as he shouts, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?” for the whole cafeteria to hear. Grif only lifts an eyebrow in suspicion and Tucker is  _ this close  _ to jumping over the table to tackle him to the ground when a firm hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his fury and back to earth.

The room is silent. Everyone is staring.

Tucker turns his head to apologize to Kimball, but it’s not Kimball.

“Come with me, Tucker,” says Felix. Tucker follows him out, shame now added to his stupid hurricane of emotions that won’t stay in the fucking bottle. His frustrations are still too loud. There’s blood rushing in his ears. His tunnel vision now shifted from Grif to Felix. Orange. Orange. Orange.

Felix leads him to one of the rooms set aside for weightlifting, conditioning, that sort of thing. The far end is laid out with mats and Felix heads toward them, unsealing his helmet. Tucker quietly follows suit, and Felix motions at him to take off the rest of his armor. Tucker’s fingers fumble at the seals and buckles, so Felix finishes stripping down before he does, but the merc just starts stretching, waiting for Tucker to catch up. He has the top part of his undersuit unzipped and tied around his waist, and his undershirt does little to hide his strong, lithe muscles. This does not seem to help Tucker’s nerves.

Finally Tucker’s down to his suit and pads onto the mats. Felix quirks an eyebrow, and makes the ‘come on’ gesture with both hands.

“C’mon Tucker. Let it all out. You’ve been on edge all week.” He settles into a fighting stance. “Hit me.”

“What? I—I’m not going to—” 

“Yes, you are. C’mon, hit me.”

Tucker holds his fists out in front of himself, suddenly nervous. He can take Grif in a fight easy, in fact, it might even be a little unfair. But there’s something about Felix when he fights that’s  _ dangerous.  _ It’s like an instinctive thing. Even when sparring, there’s a vibe he gives off that just tells you this is a bad idea. It comes through loud and clear, even through Tucker’s anxious haze.

Felix’s eyes narrow. “If you can’t even take me in a fight, Tucker, how the hell do you think you’re gonna be able to save your friends?”

Well.

Apparently that’s the right thing to say to make Tucker ignore any kind of danger.

Tucker throws his first punch directly to Felix’s face. The man dodges slightly, as if giving Tucker a freebie, since it misses his nose, but still lands solidly on his cheekbone. Then another to the jaw; Felix doesn’t let that one land and counters with a jab to Tucker’s side. It’s hard enough to punch out some of the air in his lungs.

Tucker grabs Felix under the armpits and tries to throw him to the floor, but Felix pulls Tucker down with him and somehow ends up back on his feet. Tucker growls and launches up in a tackle. Felix kicks out and hits Tucker’s shoulder, but Tucker ignores the pain and swings his arm forward and grabs hold of the sleeves of Felix’s undersuit tied around his waist. Swinging around hard, he manages to toss Felix a good yard and quickly gets up to his feet.

“Not bad, not bad.” Felix smirks as he faces Tucker again. “But not good enough.”

Felix begins a brutal pace, kicks, punches, jabs, throws; Tucker quickly works up a sweat blocking and deflecting, Every hit he tries to throw himself is easily parried.

Tucker kicks, and Felix grabs and holds onto his thigh, giving him enough time to realize the Merc’s arm around his leg is the only thing keeping him stable, before pushing him away.

“Again.”

Tucker goes for a tackle, Felix easily turns him around by slapping his arms aside and grabbing into his hair.

“Again!”

Tucker tries to punch Felix’s shoulder and is easily pushed aside and Turned around, Felix’s arm around his neck, and his hand lightly resting on the small of his back. “C’mon Tucker, you can do better!” hissed into his ear, trickles down his spine, before he’s pushed forward again.

And this was supposed to help wasn’t it? He was supposed to wail out his frustrations on Felix. So why is the blood rushing through his head louder than before? Why is it all so loud he can’t  _ think _ ?

Felix pins him to the floor and Tucker groans in anger, frustration, in  _ something _ as Felix holds him there for a second longer than necessary, and why isn’t he letting go, I know I fucked up I know I —

Blood rushes to Tucker’s face as he realizes he’s hard. Felix says something, something about it being okay and the tone is soothing but Tucker can’t, won’t listen. Shame again, another emotion frothing around in this overflowing bucket and Tucker can’t take it.

He lashes out and he can’t tell if Felix steps off of him or if he actually managed to the throw the merc, but he’s on his feet again as fast as he can and this is it. No holding back. No room for thought, just fists and feet and the floor. Felix actually looks excited, but Tucker can’t even revel in the fact that he’s managed to surprise him for once, he’s lost in the rhythm of his own pounding heartbeat. His knuckles sting. His eyes feel hot. His knee aches as he’s brought down to the floor again, but he’s ready this time and Felix goes down even harder and Tucker — and Tucker…

Felix has his hands in Tucker’s hair and pulls him to his face and now there’s lips and teeth, and for a minute, it’s just another kind of fighting, but the bucket in Tucker’s heart is leaking, is spilling, until all that’s left is thoughts about how soft Felix’s lips are.

And then.

It’s quiet.

Tucker draws back, slowly. Felix just watches. Lets his fingers unclench around Tucker’s face and scalp, but doesn’t make to move away. For the first time in weeks, Tucker sees steel… the grey flecks in Felix’s eyes, and doesn’t think about —

Tucker gets up. Felix slowly follows, with a considering look.

They both get dressed again. All the hecticness of before, gone, and yet, armoring up goes much faster than trying to take it off. Tucker hides in the safety of his helmet, and it’s still quiet. It’s still… Tucker turns to leave.

“Sorry,” he says to Felix at the doorway. He can look him in the eye. He  _ can,  _ if only because the visor is there.

Felix smiles kindly, before putting his own helmet back on.

“Don’t be.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to smut. poor wash.

Wash still hasn’t told the others about Caboose being alive.

He should, he knows it, but when he tells them they’ll have questions. Questions about how Wash got this information, questions about why Locus would tell Wash and not them.

The thought of the two of them knowing about what Wash is doing for this information sends waves of shame through him. He’ll tell them later, he promises himself. Once he knows about Grif and Simmons. There’s no reason to tell them now; not when they’ll just be disappointed that he doesn’t know about their teammates yet.

He might not have answers for them for a while, he thinks bitterly as he remembers the information he’d gotten after this afternoon’s session. Locus hadn’t been pleased by his performance, and the information reflected that. It was humiliating, going to his knees and sucking Locus off for fuzzy photographs from months ago.

But even that was more than they’d had, the knowledge that the others had at least made it to the Rebels alive and intact. Whether they still _were_ alright was another question entirely, one Wash was desperately trying to find the answer to.  

Donut reaches over and pokes Wash’s lips, pulling Wash out of his thoughts.

Eating their meals together is one of the few comforts Wash has left these days. The banter is soothing, even if there’s not enough voices. Wash keeps turning to his left, expecting to see Tucker there with a snide comment at the ready. But there’s never anyone there. Wash is the only Blue here.

“Well!” Donut sounds delighted, even as Wash leans back from his hand. “You know Wash, if you want to keep your lips nice and swollen like that, I’ve got a chaptstick that could help!”

Wash can’t help but flush crimson at that, and Donut perks up even more. Locus had kept Wash late that afternoon, taking forever to come, but Wash had taken his helmet off at dinner anyways. Clearly, that had been a mistake. Donut’s smirk tells Wash that he knows exactly why Wash’s mouth is so red and puffy. Wash ducks his head low and tries to sink into the floor, hoping that Donut will drop it. Fear coils in his stomach. What if Donut puts it together? What if he figures out who, exactly, Wash had been on his knees for so recently?

The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Donut continues, oblivious to Wash’s inner turmoil. “Ooh, is it Phillips, I know he was looking the other day—”

“Donut,” Wash manages to say after about thirty seconds of scrambling to find an excuse. “I... it’s not what you think—”

Donut smiles at him brightly. “Of course Wash!” He pats his arm. “You’re entitled to your privacy.” He winks at Wash. “Just be safe and have fun!”

Sarge grunts, still subdued with worry about the others. “Leave the man alone, Donut.” He glances at Wash, sideways, and Wash can feel his judgement—for fooling around while their friends are in danger, if nothing else.

Wash stares down at his food, appetite gone. Three days into this, and no end in sight.

And Donut already knows that something’s up. He thinks of Sarge’s disgusted expression when he finds out what Wash is doing, thinks of the horrified look on Donut’s face. They won’t understand it, why he’s doing this. The two of them don’t like Locus, don’t trust him, have warned Wash away from him before.

They’ll be disgusted by him, if they ever find out.

* * *

It takes Agent Washington a while to realize what he needs to do if he wants to get the information he’s seeking. Too focused on just getting through it to think ahead, Felix proposes during their nightly calls.

Felix is amused by the situation, by the fact that Washington will submit himself to Locus just for scraps of information. He’s particularly fascinated by Washington’s interest in Captain Tucker.

It’s satisfying, getting Washington on his knees, bringing him down. A true soldier, obedient to the core. So close to perfection, if only Washington could learn to let go of his so-called friends.

So Locus knows he needs to push Washington further, see if he will break. Locus wants to pull him apart, to understand why he is the way he is. And in order to do that, he needs to get Washington to understand what he’s doing isn’t enough to earn himself the information he seeks.

It would have been ideal if he’d come to the conclusion on his own, but…

Locus can still get the desired end result, even with Washington’s lack of initiative.

That afternoon finds Washington coughing, spluttering, on his knees in front of Locus again. Semen leaks out of the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at his face, scowling. He glares up at Locus, hatred blazing in his bright blue eyes. Locus admires the ferocity in them. It’s when Washington looks the most dangerous, even on his knees, subservient and obedient.

He wants to kill Locus.

“The information will be sent to your account,” Locus says.

Washington nods. “Same time tomorrow?” His voice is tightly wound with loathing and disgust. Two weeks of this, and Locus isn’t sure who Washington hates more for what goes on in his office; Locus or himself.

Locus savors this moment. “No.” Washington pauses, surprised by the break in routine. “Your services are no longer satisfactory, Agent Washington. Our arrangement is over.”

Panic sets over Washington’s face. “The information—” he says, urgently.

“Will be sent.”

“Tucker?” Washington’s attachment to that particular Simulation Trooper is pathetically obvious. The man’s given up on hiding it too, knowing there’s no point.

“I will determine what your performance was worth,” Locus says calmly. Washington has improved significantly over the past few weeks with regular practice, but there’s no point in rewarding him when he’ll take whatever Locus gives him.

Locus is planning on saving Lavernius Tucker’s survival for much further into this game.

Panic has driven away the hatred on Washington’s face. Locus enjoys it; the way Washington is completely vulnerable and desperate. It’s even worse than it would have been weeks ago, when Locus had begun to lure him in. Now he wants for it all to mean something. He wants to have spent weeks on his knees for a _reason_. Locus begins to reassemble his armor, savoring the weakness.

Washington hesitates, as if wanting to argue, but thinks better of it. He won’t risk angering Locus, not when Locus hasn’t sent him the information for today’s session yet. It hasn’t quiet sunk in yet, how little control he has over the situation. But he’ll get there. Locus is sure of that. Washington grabs his helmet and leaves, barely remembering to replace it to hide the signs of his activities.

Locus watches him through the cameras. As always, Washington goes right to the showers, where he gargles water and scrubs at his skin. There aren’t cameras in the showers, but Locus knows this routine by heart anyways. He’s followed him there often enough, curious to how Washington reacts to be degraded like he’s been.

Washington paces the hallways, restless, before finally returning to his room to open the files Locus has sent him. Normally he rushes right there, but Locus declaring an end to the arrangement has Washington on edge.

Locus waits outside Washington’s room, invisible and listening. How he reacts to today’s information is important.

He doesn’t have long to wait. _“Fuck_ ,” Washington yells, throwing the datapad; Locus can tell by the loud noise it makes as it hits the door. The information was decent, but far from what Washington wanted, Locus knows. More useful for an actual military mission rather than confirming if his friends were alive. Locus still hasn’t let him know if the Red soldiers are alive, let alone Lavernius Tucker.

Felix’s choice of file to show Washington originally had been inspired; the paint from the training exercise had looked enough like blood to feed into Washington’s fears. And Kimball’s own training strategy had made it look like it had occurred on a Federal Outpost, rather than her rebel camp.

Washington storms out of the room shortly after he finishes the file, with a grim but determined expression.

Locus goes back to the office, and watches Washington manage to steal condoms and lubricant from the commissary through the security cameras. Washington doesn’t want it known, it seems.

Locus smiles to himself, and takes off his helmet, setting it to the side.

This should be interesting.

* * *

Wash doesn’t let himself hesitate at the door to Locus’s office. Every second he waits is another second to change his mind. He can’t afford that. He _has_ to do this. The other option is... unthinkable. Tucker and Grif and Simmons are at stake. He needs to know. He needs to _find them_.

He pushes the door open. Locus is working at his desk, and Wash freezes when he realizes Locus’s helmet is actually off. He’s seen it off maybe once before, and he’d gotten the impression it was an accident more than anything. It’s... surprising, to see a face behind the helmet. Wash isn’t sure if it makes this harder or easier.

“Agent Washington,” Locus says, glancing up in surprise. “I told you, our arrangement—”

“Wasn’t satisfactory,” Wash says. “I have a new offer.”

He strides across the room with all the confidence he can muster. Locus pushes his chair back from the desk, raising an eyebrow.

Wash walks right up to Locus and straddles him on his chair. Then he swallows his pride and kisses Locus, clinging to his shoulders, trying to keep himself there more than anything else.

Locus doesn’t move to hold Wash or pull him closer, like Wash had thought he might, but he does open his mouth and push his tongue into Wash’s. Wash wants to choke in disgust as Locus explores his mouth, but he keeps going, still kissing him even as he begins to remove Locus’s armor.

Wash came prepared, wearing only his bodysuit, but Locus, apart from his helmet, is mostly armored. Wash doesn’t bother trying to get Locus’s gloves or greaves, but instead scrambles to remove the shoulders, chestplate, and thigh armor. Locus makes no move to help him, but he leans back into the chair as Wash stops kissing him, not moving to stop him either.

Locus’s eyes bore into his, as if challenging him to make the next move. Wash swallows, and reaches down to Locus’s codpiece. He pulls it off, and grinds down on Locus’s lap. The man grunts, and Wash can already feel his erection straining at the fabric, pressing against Wash’s ass.

Wash finally stands up, taking out the lube and the condoms. “I…” he cracks. “Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?”

Locus’s expression doesn’t shift and his voice is still steady. If Wash hadn’t been on his lap seconds ago, he might have thought Locus was completely unaffected by all of this. “You’re the one changing the terms, Agent Washington,” he says.

Wash understands what Locus is saying, and unzips his own suit. He hasn’t been naked in front of Locus before, and he looks away as Locus’s eyes begin to move, examining him. He hates this vulnerability, hates the way that Locus’s gaze finally turns hungry.

“Look at me,” Locus orders, and Wash swallows, staring at Locus’s face as he coats his fingers, and begins to finger himself, trying to be as thorough as possible. He needs to be able to take this. He needs to be sure that he earns…

Something real. Something _important._

_Tucker, Tucker, Tucker._

Locus’s eyes remain on him the whole time, and Wash hates it, hates the heavy lidded expression on Locus’s face. It was easier when it was just a helmet, Wash thinks bitterly. But Wash refuses to look away, not wanting to anger Locus, not when so much is at stake.

When he’s done, he grabs the condoms and determinedly straddles Locus again, who hasn’t even moved to unzip his suit. Wash doesn’t let himself think about that, just leans over and kisses Locus again while he tugs at the zipper with the other hand.

Wash grits his teeth and grips Locus tightly with his still lubricated hand, jerking him to full hardness, his other hand fumbling with the condom, rolling it down Locus’s shaft. Finally, everything’s ready and Locus raises an eyebrow, expectant.

Wash swallows, and sinks down, taking Locus in, letting out strangled noises as he takes it. It’s been _so long_ since he’s had anything up his ass, and this... Wash struggles to keep his breathing even, not wanting to let Locus know how overwhelmed he’s feeling. He'd always loved this with other partners. The stretch, the slight burn, the sensation of being filled up... but he can't let himself feel good right now. Not with Locus. He’s not here to enjoy himself, he’s here to learn the truth about what’s happening to his friends. Finally, he’s taken in the whole thing, perched on Locus’s lap, gripping onto Locus’s shoulders again for lack of anything better to hold on to.

Locus grunts, but doesn’t thrust up into him, to Wash’s surprise. But his hands do move to Wash’s hips; he’s still wearing his armored gloves and Wash winces slightly at his grip. But Locus raises a challenging eyebrow at him, and he starts moving anyways, rocking up and down on Locus’s cock.

Wash keeps his teeth set even as he rides Locus’s cock with everything he has. The angle isn't right, but he makes no move to correct it, because he doesn’t _care_ about getting off. He just needs to make sure Locus finishes, and then _maybe_ this can be over. He’ll find Tucker and Caboose and the others and he’ll never have to do anything like this again…

Despite this, he can feel his cock slowly start to harden between them, and he thinks he catches a hint of amusement in Locus’s eyes. Glaring, Wash leans in to kiss him again, feeling Locus’s grip tighten on his hips. It’s the only warning before his hips snap up as he comes, his cock finally hitting Wash’s prostate. Wash cries out against Locus’s lips as a wave of genuine pleasure rocks through him. His teeth sink into Wash’s lower lip as he swallows Wash’s cries, while Locus remains perfectly silent. Wash tries to pull away, but Locus holds him tight, keeping him there until he’s done.

Finally, Locus releases his grip on Wash’s hips, and Wash clambers off as quickly as he can, Locus’s dick sliding out of his ass wetly and noisily. His chest is chest heaving and he does his best to ignore his own hardness, even though it’s leaking precum and is fully visible in Wash’s naked state. “Well?” Wash asks. He hates how breathless he sounds, like it was good for him, instead of filling him with disgust. He hates how he wants to wrap a hand around his cock and jerk himself off. After fucking _Locus_.

He knows he can never let Sarge and Donut know where he got this information.

Locus tilts his head and smiles. Wash freezes, unnerved.

“The information will be sent,” Locus says. “Same time tomorrow.” He glances at the lube and condoms at his desk. “Leave those here,” he adds.

Wash nods, tense, and gets dressed before he goes to try to scrub a layer of skin off in the shower.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been a week since the  _ incident  _ in the training room and Tucker... Tucker doesn’t know what to do. He’s ashamed at his outburst in the cafeteria, but Grif doesn’t bring it up again, and Tucker would rather leave the whole matter forgotten.

But he can’t really forget the feeling of Felix’s hands on his face, or of his teeth on his lips.

And for some reason, he really can’t forget that smile. The one that had elicited the phantom of a dazed tug at the corners of Tucker’s own lips without his permission.

It was bizarre almost. Felix isn’t a smile-y guy. He  _ smirks _ right and left like a pro, but there’s always something mocking about it. Something mean. Some underlying sense of superiority that the merc doesn’t bother to mask.

And why should he? This army’s the bottom of the barrel, everyone knows it. Tucker’s doing his best to pass on what little Wash managed to teach him, but the longer it’s been since being separated, the more hopeless it all seems.

Tucker doesn’t like to wallow or stew. He doesn’t like to wait around when  _ something _ could be done. He doesn’t know where Wash and the others are being held but he knows they’re  _ somewhere  _ and it’s driving him crazy. And he’s not good at hiding it either: he snaps at Palomo, he’s testy with Kimball... He’s in the office, bullying the kid who’s keeping in contact with Felix on his recon mission, trying to get updates on any information he might have gleaned.

“I’m sorry Captain, but Felix is maintaining radio silence right now, I can’t tell you what he’s found out yet! I don’t even know myself!” She tells him. “I can connect you with him directly when he’s back on?”

Tucker growls and retreats to his room. He wouldn’t say he’s been avoiding Felix exactly. But he doesn’t really want to talk to the guy. He doesn’t know what to say or do about what happened, and he doesn’t really know Felix well enough to know whether or not he’s going to want to talk about it. So distance seems to be a good solution for now. He’s only seen the merc around when he’s with other people, so it hasn’t been an issue, but he’s sort of hoping that it’ll all fizzle out; he’ll do his job and get the intel they need, and then Tucker can get back to saving his friends.

But right now, he can’t. And he has to wait. There’s no more training scheduled for today, and it’s already pretty late. Tucker wants to go to the training room again and maybe kick the punching bag’s ass a few times, but no one’s moved the sparring mats from when Felix and Tucker had their impromptu brawl/makeout session, and Tucker can’t look at that corner without flushing. So instead he goes off to bed and tries to sleep.

He gets maybe two hours of what one might consider “tense napping” before he’s jumping out of bed and throwing on sweatpants and a tank top and speeding towards the warehouse. Maybe he can get a couple of laps. Just. Tire himself out first. Get this stupid wired feeling out. Too bad he can’t just try to jerk it like he normally would to get the edge off but… Steel grey eyes, teeth, lips—no. He doesn’t want to think about that. That’s not “letting it all fizzle out”.

It’s a little after two in the morning by the time he stops running, sweaty and exhausted. The buzzing in his spine has mostly stopped, but he still doesn’t feel quite ready for bed again. Tucker heads down to the showers and as he fumbles with his locker combination who walks in but-

“Felix.” Tucker greets him with a curt nod and a gruff tone, before realizing that if Felix is back, then maybe… “Did you find anything on the others?”

Felix dials in his own locker combination, and starts stripping off his armor. “Sorry Tucker, only that they’ve been moved again. It was more about gathering intel on munitions anyways.” He gives Tucker a look. “The next time I’m scheduled to go out, I’ll see if I can get Kimball to agree to let me try at their databases. That information is bound to be on their networks.”

Tucker wants curse and stomp away, but he realizes Felix is trying to help him out here, so instead he lets out a sigh and mutters, “Thanks.”

Felix finishes stripping down, and, as he passes by Tucker, he gives him a companionable clap on the shoulder that lasts just a second too long. As his hand slips from Tucker’s skin, Tucker’s face heats up and stares after Felix’s naked form retreating behind one of the shower stalls. Snaps his eyes back to his locker when he realizes he’s checking out the man’s ass. Tucker gets the combination wrong  _ again  _ and god fucking damn it. He’s sick of feeling jittery and on edge and—

But the buzzing’s not in his spine anymore, it’s pooled in his gut and moving to his groin and Tucker. Tucker  _ knows _ what to do with this. This is familiar.

So much for fizzling out.

He strips quickly and hops into his own shower stall. Felix is somewhere in the middle, so Tucker takes one near the end. Bro code and all that. Leave a dude some space. Don’t let it get weird, but it’s stupidly late and Tucker’s got a boner and he’s gonna fucking deal with it.

And it’s fine, he gets a rhythm going, but he can’t take his mind off the fact that Felix is only a couple of feet away. It doesn’t flag his erection at all, in fact, it gets him hotter than what he can blame on the temperature of the shower. The water pressure is pretty intense, and it stings against his front. Good for getting clean, not so good for getting off normally. But right now the extra stimulation is really doing it for him and Tucker’s usually good at being quiet, but he moves a little, and suddenly the water’s hitting his nipples and a stuttered cry escapes his lips as his balls tense up and he paints the tiles white.

Tucker gasps in lung-fulls of steam, and then freezes.

The water hitting the cement floor is still loud in his ears. Is Felix still there? Did he hear? Tucker can’t tell if there’s another shower going right now.

After a minute, Tucker decides that his shower is the only one going, and that it seems like he’s the only one in the room. Still though, too close. He cleans up fast as he can, stuffs his soap and shampoo back into his caddy, wraps his towel around his hips and steps out.

Felix did not leave the room.

Tucker freezes. Felix has boxers on, and is in his locker again, putting things away, and it’s the perfect picture of casual, but there’s no way.  _ No way _ Felix didn’t hear what Tucker was doing.

Tucker swallows nervously, before steeling himself and heading back to his own locker.

Yeah, he jerked off. Yeah, he did it with Felix right there. And yeah, maybe he’d been thinking a little bit about the tingle dancing over his skin the other day when Felix’s touched him. What the fuck is he gonna do about it? Nothing! That’s what. He throws Felix a side-long glance, as if daring him to say anything.

But instead Tucker’s the one to lose his words.

Because Felix definitely,  _ definitely  _ has a boner right now. 

Felix doesn’t look over, but his hand is on the waistband of his boxers, thumb skirting downwards every few seconds like a twitch he barely has under control. He’s breathing through his mouth and his eyes are lidded, looking straight ahead.

It’s hot as hell.

Tucker despairs as he can feel his own dick try to rise again against the towel and, holy fuck, he’s not that young anymore, he can’t remember the last time he got hard this fast after coming. And forget the shit he was thinking earlier, he can’t deal with this, he has to go, he has to leave—

Felix chooses then to look at Tucker out of the corner of his eye and Tucker’s mouth goes dry, and his feet turn to lead. Felix’s hand finally slips under his waistband, and Tucker lets out the smallest, most pathetic noise he’s ever heard himself make.

Oh fuck it.

Tucker takes half a step towards him and apparently that’s all Felix needs. The Merc moves forward and a second later Tucker feels the cold metal of the locker against his back and Felix’s teeth against his lips. Tucker opens his mouth and  _ holy shit,  _ Felix has a tongue piercing. Their mouths slide together and it’s so hot and wet and  _ Jesus Christ.  _ Tucker loses his grip on the towel and he tries to grab after it once it starts to slip, but Felix grabs his wrist and holds it away, letting the towel hit the floor instead. The merc pushes his hips forward and Tucker can feel the man palming himself through the cloth of his underwear and fuuuuuuckkkkk. Tucker’s eyes roll into his head a bit as all the blood in his brain rushes south, leaving him dizzy.

Felix moves down, latching onto Tucker’s neck, and sucks a mean hickey into his skin before scraping his teeth over it. Tucker shudders and mindlessly lets Felix move one of his hands up to the man’s hair. It’s still wet and Tucker threading his fingers through it must pull at the strands a bit, but Felix holds it there as he sinks down, down, down-

Oh fuck. Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…..

If indulging in Felix’s mouth with his tongue was hot and overwhelming, then having his dick do the same is like Tucker just died and went to heaven. It’s so hot and slick, and Felix downs him like a fucking pro: sinking forward until his nose is pressed against Tucker’s happy trail, and fuckkkkkk. Tucker can’t remember the last time he had a blowjob this good. He can’t remember if he’s  _ ever  _ had a blowjob this good. Felix pushes his tongue against Tucker’s dick as he slides back again and the stud gives the tiniest bit of an electric sting as it scrapes against a vein. Tucker’s not into teeth but ooooohhhhh jesus christ does  _ that _ feel good.

Felix makes a few passes back and forth before giving Tucker’s hand a squeeze. Oh right. Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Tucker grips a little harder into Felix’s hair and starts moving his hips. Felix sighs, or Tucker thinks he does, as it comes out in slutty little huffs as Tucker’s cock moves in and out of his throat, blocking his airway. Felix removes his hand and has it join the other in his boxers, finally pulling out his own flushed cock, dripping with precum. He plays with his balls as Tucker fucks his mouth, and somehow the sight of that, Felix getting off on all this, is enough to push Tucker over the edge.

“Felix—Felix I’m gonna—” Tucker’s head slams back into the locker behind him as he tenses up. He tries to push Felix away, because there’s no way that was enough of a warning, but Felix’s hands fly away from his own dick and pull Tucker’s hips flush to his face, swallowing him all the way down. The pulsations of his throat are almost too much, and the moment Tucker’s done spurting come into the warm, slick passage enveloping him, the moment he’s fully spent, it becomes too much, and—forget before,  _ this _ is the most pathetic noise he’s ever made

Felix stops swallowing, but he holds Tucker still against the wall with one hand, and brings his other quickly back to his own dick. Tucker watches, dazed, as Felix jerks himself so fast, that his hand seems to blur. His face has been flushed this whole time, but Tucker can’t tell if it’s actually starting to turn red now and he’s about to push the merc off when Felix finally pulls off Tucker’s dick with a filthy pop and a deep, long gasp for air. There’s a trail of saliva bridging his bottom lip and the tip of Tucker’s cock and it’s the filthiest thing Tucker’s ever seen, until Felix leans against Tucker and presses what can only be called an O-face into Tucker’s hip as he shoots cum against Tucker’s shaking legs.

They stay there, panting for a few minutes, before Tucker slides down and sits on the floor. Felix smiles at him and, fuck, Tucker laughs. Laughs because this is so  _ stupid _ , so fucking- He barely knows this guy and. And. Fuck. He’s not into dudes. He’s  _ not _ . This is just. Was just. Fuck, he doesn’t know, but, shit, that  _ smile _ , and now Felix is laughing a little bit too and Tucker thinks maybe that isn’t so bad.

Tucker snorts as another thought hits him.

“What’s so funny?” Felix asks, quirking up an eyebrow in a way that Tucker’s just going to have to admit to himself right now is  _ very  _ attractive. His lips shine with spit that he hasn’t yet wiped off.  _ My dick was in there _ , Tucker thinks with wonder,  _ I fucked that mouth _ .

“I think we’re gonna need to shower again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got a tumblr now! 
> 
> https://inthralll.tumblr.com/
> 
> lots of filth there. lots. of. filth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so most of this has been written for a while so you guys get a quick update. oops.

Wash now knows that Grif and Simmons are alive.

The names are practically seared into his brain, reminding him over and over again of why he’s here, why he’s doing these things. Kneeling in front of Locus with a cock in his mouth, straddling him and bouncing on his lap, and, as Locus loses patience with Wash setting the pace, bent over the desk as Locus fucks him slowly. 

The problem, Wash determines quickly, is that Locus seems to take every reaction from Wash as encouragement and a challenge. He’s mapping out what exactly he has to do to make Wash squirm or lose control, even if it’s just for a moment. He’s started prepping Wash himself more and more often, usually quickly and efficiently, but occasionally spending time pressing against Wash’s prostate until Wash gives in and makes a noise. 

Locus never comes quickly, and isn’t afraid to pace himself if it means he can push Wash further to the edge. Wash plays along as best he can, faking enthusiasm in hopes that Locus will end it quickly. It hurts his pride, sure, but if he gives Locus what he wants, it might bring an end to this whole nightmare. A few pretend moans and pants are a slim price to pay if it’s bringing him closer to the day when he can see his friends again, and never have to feel Locus’s hands on hips hips again.

But the increasing number of hard-ons as the days wear on makes Wash worried he might not be entirely faking it anymore. Wash had dismissed it as a one-time incident the first time he’d rode Locus, but it had kept happening, with increasing frequency as Wash refused to acknowledge it. Now, Wash holds onto whatever he can to stop himself from touching his aching cock as Locus fucks him so hard his body shakes. He deliberately doesn’t run away after the “appointments” in Locus’s office, but it still feels like his tail is between his legs, with Locus’s eyes hot on his back. 

After Locus finishes and dismisses him, Wash flees to the shower and turns it on as cold as he can every time, trying to will his erection away. He refuses to get off because of Locus. And Locus has shown no inclination to touch Wash either, seemingly amused by the idea of leaving Wash wanting in more ways than one.

Wash still doesn’t know if Tucker’s alright. He hasn’t been even mentioned in any of the information Locus has been giving him. Wash knows he needs to make sure he does what Locus wants, or risk Locus terminating their arrangement again. 

He’s on his knees again. Locus is out of armor, which means Wash is expected to take initiative in getting access. Wash fumbles with Locus’s belt while Locus looks on impassively. He’s sitting down in the desk chair this time, his legs spread open widely to accommodate Wash kneeling between them.

“I've noticed you've been enjoying yourself more in the last few encounters, Agent Washington.”

Wash grits his teeth as he pulls down Locus's fatigues. Locus is already hard, and Wash bends his head to start taking him into his mouth.  

“There is no shame in taking pleasure in your work,” Locus says, and Wash feels his cheeks heat up.

His  _ work _ . Wash sucks Locus further into his mouth, hoping to distract the mercenary from speaking more. He’s not usually this talkative, and it makes Wash nervous.

“Touch yourself,” Locus says quietly, as he rests a hand on Wash’s head almost lazily.

Wash pauses for a second, thinking he might have imagined it, and Locus tugs on his hair, a reminder. Wash bobs his head obediently and slowly reaches down to cup himself through his fatigues. He glances up at Locus, who nods approvingly, and his cheeks heat up again. He starts to stroke himself through the layers of his clothes, cheeks still hot as he feels his cock respond far too quickly for his taste. It’s been a while, and Locus has been winding him up constantly without follow through for _weeks_ now. 

Locus nudges Wash’s cock with his foot, and Wash has to stop himself from leaning forward into it. It’s been a long, long time. But he must not hide it well enough, because there’s a small smile on Locus’s face when he speaks next. “Off.” 

Wash closes his eyes to avoid looking at Locus, and manages to push down his fatigues and underwear down far enough to free his hardening cock.  Wash hesitantly wraps a hand around himself, glancing up at Locus tentatively. Locus smiles, and pulls Wash forward by his hair. Wash hollows his cheeks, relaxes his throat, and keeps working, hoping Locus isn’t in one of his moods that makes him take forever to get off. All the while, he keeps jerking himself off. 

It’s been so long since Wash has had time to touch himself, let alone the inclination to do so. Without thinking, Wash finds himself moaning, the sound muffled by Locus’s cock, and Locus smirks. Wash’s cheeks flush again, and he stops, hoping Locus is satisfied.

“Keep moving,” Locus orders, his fingers tightening in Wash’s hair to the point that Wash gasps slightly, the action sending another wave of arousal through him. Wash squirms, but obeys, starting to jerk himself off harder, faster. He tries to think of something else, besides his position between Locus’s legs, but Locus has started to fuck his throat in earnest, and Wash is finding himself moaning and groaning around the dick in his mouth as he finds his own rhythm, and Locus is moving faster now, closer to finishing.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Agent Washington?” Locus asks, and Wash hates how controlled he sounds, even as Wash is panting around him. He’s close to the edge now, and he’s going to come like this, come with Locus fucking his mouth and pulling his hair, with his own hands wrapped around his dick because he’d been ordered to do it.

It’s too much all together, and Wash cries out as he comes. Through the haze, he thinks he hears Locus laugh. It’s been a  _ long time _ , and Wash can’t help but feel relief, but that takes a back seat to the overwhelming sense of shame as he comes crashing down from the high of his orgasm. What would people think if they saw him like this? What would  _ Tucker  _ think? 

Locus tuts at him, pulling Wash forward again by the hair. Wash goes slack in his grip, letting Locus put him where he wants. Maybe Locus will let Wash go now. Maybe this humiliation is what he wanted before he lets Wash know if Tucker survived. “You were once a brilliant soldier,” Locus says. “So much  _ potential _ . And yet here you are. Brought here out of concern for meaningless soldiers. You could walk away whenever you desire. But you keep coming back.”

Wash knows it’s going to happen when Locus comes, and prepares to take it. But to his shock Locus pulls him off of his dick suddenly, only to come all over Wash’s face. It hits his face in thick, hot spurts, splattering over Wash’s cheeks, his forehead, and his mouth. Wash splutters, face flushing, disgust and humiliation at war in him as cum drips down his face. His own cum covers the floor, his legs and stomach, and Wash flushes again as he sees Locus take it all in. 

“You’ve made a mess, Agent Washington,” Locus says calmly. 

Wash glares up at him, his cheeks bright red, realizing that he has to leave the office like this. Locus hauls him to his feet by his shirt, both of them standing nearly chest to chest. His hand goes up to Wash’s face, wiping off some of the cum with his fingers before he presses them against Wash’s lips. Wash lets him push them into his mouth, reluctantly swirling his tongue around them, cleaning them off. He gags on the taste, but keeps at it until Locus withdraws. 

Locus smiles, wiping his hand on Wash’s shirt.

“The information will be sent,” Locus says, and finally lets go. He reaches into the desk drawer where he keeps the lube and condoms that Wash had stolen ages ago and throws Wash a towel. “Clean yourself off.” 

Wash nods, pulls up his pants, desperately wipes his face off on the cloth, and flees, eager to put as much space between himself and that office as he possibly can.

* * *

 

Wash gets surveillance video of Caboose and Grif on a scouting mission for that, and Wash almost wants to scream. 

He dreams about Tucker, bleeding out on the ground with a bullet in his shoulder, of the sword fizzling out on the ground next to him. 

Wash has to risk it; he has to push. Locus thinks he can keep stringing Wash along like this, but he’s wrong. Wash can walk away whenever he wants, and Locus clearly wants this to continue... whatever  _ this  _ is.

He gets to Locus’s office and stares at him, crossing his arms. Locus is sitting behind his desk, waiting for him. “You said the performance determined the payment,” he said. It’s a struggle to keep his voice even, but he manages. 

“That is correct,” Locus says. He looks up at Wash. 

“I want you to tell me,” Wash says. “What’s the price for the information about Tucker?”

Locus gets to his feet, moving towards Wash with powerful strides that brings him to Wash in moments. Wash gasps as Locus fists a hand in his hair and tilts his head back. Without meaning to, Wash’s hands go up and wrap around Locus’s wrists, trying to break his grip. Locus pulls harder on his hair and Wash drops his hands, glaring. 

“You still do not understand, Agent Washington.”

“Understand what?” Wash demands. 

“Stagnation,” Locus says, dangerously soft. 

Wash swallows, mouth suddenly dry as Locus lets go of him. 

“What... what is it that you want me to do?”

Locus seems pleased by this answer, nodding in approval. “Go to the showers and prepare yourself, Agent Washington. I will meet with you there.”

For a moment, Wash thinks that Locus is joking. But Locus doesn’t joke. 

“You can’t be serious,” Wash hears himself say. His heart is pounding loudly in his ears. 

Locus cants his head to one side, and Wash feels his stomach fall. 

“This is a bad idea,” Wash says before he can stop himself. 

“And why’s that, Agent Washington?” Locus moves towards him again. He’s in armor, and Wash isn’t, and Wash keenly feels the imbalance. 

“I… people will  _ hear _ ,” Wash protests. His cheeks heat up at the thought of the sounds he is reluctantly becoming used to--the slap of skin on skin, his own gasps and occasional moans, Locus’s pleased grunts when he gets a reaction that he wants--filling the showers

“There are ways to keep you quiet, Agent Washington,” Locus observes, grabbing Wash’s chin and tilting his head up so he’s staring right at Locus’s helmet. Because they both know  _ he’s _ not the worry here, Wash thinks bitterly.

Wash recoils at the idea of sucking Locus off in the showers. Locus lets him, stepping backwards. Wash can’t see his face, but he’s pretty sure Locus is smiling. “I…”

Locus throws something at him. Wash catches it instinctively, and then drops it once he realizes what it is.

Duct tape.

“ _No_!” Wash yelps. “I… no.” He swallows, thinking of the reasons Locus might have thought he needed it. “I’ll manage.”

Locus nods, as if he was expecting this. “The stall on the far right,” he tells Wash. “I’ll rendezvous with you there.” He throws something else, and this time Wash clutches at it numbly, recognizing it as lube. 

Wash hurries to the shower, not sure when Locus will be there, and not sure if Locus would be willing to wait for him to finish prepping before skipping straight to fucking him whether he was ready or not.

The showers are mostly empty at this time of day, and Wash is grateful for that small mercy. He gets into the stall that Locus designated and sets to work. He turns on the shower, which hopefully will cover at least some of the noise. He’ll have to work to keep quiet. It shouldn’t be a problem. It’s not like what Locus does  _ feels _ good, most days. Locus doesn’t care about Wash’s enjoyment; the only time Wash got off, Locus made him get himself off. It’s not likely to change here. 

He closes his eyes as he presses his fingers into himself, and tries to push himself far away, pretending he’s anywhere else, about to do this with anyone else. 

Tucker slips into his mind as usual, and Wash forces himself away from that train of thought. Tucker’s in danger, in the enemy camp, out of reach. Tucker wouldn’t want Wash, not if he had even the slightest inkling of what Wash was doing. 

And it’s not like Wash ever deserved him either. 

The door opens and Locus steps in, completely naked. Wash stares for a moment, not being used to the sight of Locus’s broad, scarred chest even after weeks of their arrangement. Locus is so often in armor, and even when he’s not, he rarely undresses. 

Locus approaches Wash, placing his hands on Wash’s hips and pulling him against him. Wash can feel Locus’s hard-on pressing against him and whimpers, fingers still in his ass. Locus grabs his wrist and pulls him out before pressing his own fingers in, testing and probing. Wash whimpers slightly, twisting in Locus’s grasp. 

“Are you ready, Agent Washington?” Locus asks, his fingers finding Wash’s prostate and making Wash moan loudly with a full body shudder. 

“Yes,” Wash manages to say, but his voice is already breathless and he hates it. The water seems to be amplifying the sensations, and Wash is hard and cursing his body for giving in so easily.  

“Hands against the wall,” Locus orders, letting go of Wash and removing his fingers. Wash moves to obey. The water is hot, already filling the stall with steam and making the floor slippery. Wash braces himself against the stall, and bites his lip while Locus places hands on his hips, lining himself up. Locus takes his time, rubbing his cock teasingly against Wash before thrusting in slowly, until his chest is pressed against Wash’s back. 

Locus’s pace is agonizingly slow and oddly gentle, compared to the rougher thrusting Wash has become accustomed to. Wash finds himself slowly losing himself, his mouth falling open despite his best efforts, moaning and panting in surprise as Locus reaches around and grabs the base of his cock, slowly beginning to jerk him off…

The sound of laughter cuts through the haze of sex and reaches Wash. “Sounds like someone’s having a fun time!” People. There are people here. People are  _ hearing this _ .

“Locus,” Wash manages, gasping again as Locus grips his hip with the hand not wrapped around his cock, pushing further into him. “Locus, I…”

Locus stills, and Wash has to bite back a whimper. “Yes, Agent Washington?”

“I… the gag,” Wash lets out another moan as Locus thrusts again. The giggles resume in the distance. “I… I can’t... I can’t keep quiet. I need…”

Locus pulls out slowly and Wash lets out an involuntary whine, his hips moving backwards, trying to follow. His cheeks immediately flush with shame. He wonders what Tucker would think, if he saw Wash like this. “Turn around.”

Wash does, and then Locus’s hand is fisted in his hair, yanking his head back painfully and suddenly. Wash opens his mouth in a gasp before a wad of damp cloth is forced into his mouth. Wash chokes for a second as Locus pushes the cloth in too far, but finally he stops and Wash pants through his nose, mouth full of washcloth.

Locus then grabs Wash and steers him against the wall, back to it this time. Wash does his best not to squirm as Locus pulls his legs up, hooking them around his waist. Wash barely has time to register the change in position before he lets out a muffled cry as Locus thrusts into him again. Wash grabs a hold of Locus’s shoulders and tries to balance himself. 

Wash quickly finds himself quickly moaning and coming undone in Locus’s grasp. One of Locus’s hands leaves Wash’s ass to wrap around his dick again, and it actually  _ feels good _ . Locus pounds into him incessantly, and Wash’s head leans back against the tile. He’s making frantic noises through the gag, all this while trying to move his hips as best he can to ride the sensations. Wash doesn’t know what to do, what to think, but he might actually come like this, Locus might actually be about to get him off, and he thinks he sees Locus smile again as he moans into the cloth. Finally, Locus comes with a grunt, and Wash whimpers as he feels it trickle down his leg. 

Locus lowers him back down, and Wash staggers, off balance and hard and desperate with want. Locus grabs both of Wash’s hands and pins them above his head with one of his own, pressing Wash’s back against the wall of the stall.

Wash whines thoughtlessly and rolls his hips, silently pleading. Locus has never gotten him off before, there’s no reason to think he would, but he stares into Locus’s eyes, begging as best he can without speaking. 

“Do you want to come, Agent Washington?” Locus asks quietly. His other hand wraps loosely around Wash’s dick and Wash moans and nods desperately. 

Locus smiles, and leans forward until he gets near Wash’s ear. “Then fuck yourself into my hand,” Locus orders, and his grip tightens. 

Wash whimpers but rocks forward again and again into the heat and pressure of Locus’s  hand. Locus doesn’t move it, doesn't say anything else, just stares at Wash’s face as Wash falls apart in his grasp, gasping and panting around the cloth in his mouth. 

Wash comes, and only then does Locus start to move his hand, jerking Wash until he’s spent and overstimulated, mewling into the gag, straining against Locus’s grip on his wrists, back arching away from the wall. Locus’s hand disappears and Wash feels his cheeks heat up again as reality crashes back over him; who he’s with, where he is, what he’s doing. Locus just got him off. And Wash had all but begged for it. 

Locus meanwhile, yanks the gag out of Wash’s mouth. Wash coughs at the abrupt removal, but bites his tongue to stop himself from saying anything. Keeping Wash’s hands trapped above his head, Locus then takes the cloth and swipes it up the inside of Wash’s legs, cleaning off the mess there. Locus drags the cloth over Wash’s dick and stomach next, and Wash struggles in place silently against Locus’s grip on his wrists, not liking the feeling of humiliation that accompanies Locus cleaning him. 

Finally, Locus seems pleased that Wash is cleaned up to his satisfaction. Almost thoughtfully, he presses the now-dirtied cloth to Wash’s lips. The smell fills Wash with disgust and he would lean away if he could, but he’s trapped and they both know it. For a second, Wash thinks Locus is going to gag him again and start over, fucking him again and again until he gets bored. “The information will be sent to your account,” Locus says instead, releasing Wash’s wrists. He drops the cloth to the ground.

Wash nods, not trusting himself to speak. He pauses, waiting to see if Locus will depart so Wash can try to clean himself up properly. 

But Locus makes no move to leave, instead turning away, preparing to shower himself.

So Wash grabs his towel and runs back to his own quarters, hoping none of the cadets in the showers make the connection between him and the noises they’d been laughing at earlier. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get steamy with Tucker and Felix ;)

They don’t talk about it. 

Things go back to normal, except the part where Tucker can’t stop looking at Felix’s mouth and remembering what it felt like around his dick, about the way that Felix had managed to turn his brain to mush. 

About the way that he wants to do that again. 

But other things are happening too; there’s still no information on the others, the training is still going terribly, and whatever relief he’d managed to find with Felix in the locker room fades away quickly. Soon, Tucker is snapping at Grif again, and Felix notices it. 

He pulls Tucker aside, shaking his head. “We should spar again,” he says, but there’s an angle to his head that tells Tucker he’s not talking about the first time, with the mats, but the second time. 

Tucker squints at him. “You’re... serious?” 

Felix nudges him. “It’s stress relief, Tucker. No need to make it complicated.” 

Tucker glances sideways, but all he can think about is Felix’s fucking  _ mouth _ , with the piercing hidden in there somewhere, and how  _ good  _ it felt around his dick and--

Tucker kisses Felix and holy  _ shit _ Felix kisses just as good as Tucker remembers. His tongue keeps doing  _ things _ and Tucker’s going weak in the knees just thinking about it, as Felix curls his fingers into his hair and  _ pulls _ and Tucker can only moan. 

They separate, and Tucker’s got Felix pressed up against the wall, both of them breathing heavily, chests rising and falling, and Felix grins that strangely soft smile. It’s so different than the smirks Tucker’s used to seeing on the merc. 

“My room or yours?” Felix says softly, his fingertips cool on Tucker’s cheek. 

“Mine’s closer,” Tucker says, even though he has no fucking idea where Felix sleeps or where his room is, but Tucker’s just two halls down and it takes  _ effort  _ not to sprint there, to just let himself wander in that direction. 

Caboose is off on a mission so Tucker has the room to himself, and all he can think is thank  _ fuck  _ because as soon as the door closes behind them Felix is kissing him again, sucking on his lower lip and tugging on Tucker’s hair. Tucker responds by doing his best to suck a hickey into the side of Felix’s neck. Felix gasps and pants. “ _ Tuck _ ,” he says, voice sounding strangled. Tucker grins, because fuck yeah, he’s good, and starts to fall to his knees to return the favor from last time. He’s never done this before, but Felix doesn’t need to know that. Tucker gives great head for girls and it can’t be that hard, right?

“Tucker,” Felix catches him by the shirt. His mouth falls half open before he shuts it again. “I--do you want to--”

“What is it dude?” Tucker asks, frowning. 

Felix kisses him again, hot and desperate and did Tucker already say hot?

“Want to take this thing past fourth base?” Felix says, reaching down and cupping Tucker through his fatigues. Tucker nearly yelps at the touch, his hips rolling forward, but he’s also distracted. 

“Did you just use the base system? How fucking old are you?”

Felix rolls his eyes, and doesn’t answer Tucker’s question. “So?”

Tucker pauses for a moment, unsure. Tucker’s done some weird shit in his time, but it had always been with... well,  _ chicks.  _ What Felix is suggesting is new and weird and... kind of intimidating. Tucker almost says know, why don’t they just stick to fooling around? But then he looks at Felix again, sees the soft look, sees the gleam in his eyes, sees the way that his fatigues are tented, because he wants  _ Tucker _ , and hell yeah, Tucker can work with this. 

“Sure,” Tucker says with a shrug. 

Grinning, Felix tugs off his shirt, and Tucker does the same, stripping down until they’re both naked. Felix tugs Tucker down onto the bed, their cocks bumping against each other for a while as they take turns marking each other up. 

Finally, Tucker pulls away and starts groping for the lube. Felix grins when he spots it, and starts to suck on Tucker’s neck again while Tucker starts to open himself as best he can. It’s not as easy as Tucker thought it would be, awkward angles and kind of fumbling through it, but Tucker tries to play it off, not wanting Felix to know that this is something is up. 

“Do this often?” Felix says, propping himself up on his elbows as he watches Tucker. 

“Sure,” Tucker lies. “All the time.”

There’s a gleam in Felix’s eye that says he doesn’t believe Tucker, but he pushes Tucker down onto the bed. 

“Here,” he whispers, kissing Tucker again, “let me.” 

Felix’s mouth is smart and fast and his fingers are that but  _ more _ . Tucker has to bite his lip to stop himself from yelling as Felix begins to push one, two fingers in, stretching him open. It’s different from how Tucker was doing it, and Felix lets out a laugh when he finds what Tucker  _ knows  _ is his prostate, but he never knew it could feel like  _ this. _ Tucker does yell this time, arching off the bed, and Felix grins at him again. 

“Think you can keep up?” Felix challenges. Tucker wraps his legs around Felix’s waist and grins as confidently as he can manage. Felix lines himself up and Tucker gasps despite himself as Felix starts to push in slowly. 

It’s overwhelming, it’s fucking  _ hot _ , there’s a slight burn as Felix pushes in, but a good kind of burn, like  _ fuck  _ that feels good. Felix bends over him, panting slightly when he finishes pushing in.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Felix pants. “You’re fucking  _ tight _ , this your first time?”

“No,” Tucker snaps slightly. “Dude are you gonna just sit there or do something, cuz I can think of waaaay more interesting things to--”

He’s cut off with a yelp as Felix begins to move his hips, and Tucker eagerly moves his own to meet him. Thank god for Wash and all those leg days, because Tucker’s game is  _ good _ . Felix’s mouth keeps falling open, and he keeps staring at Tucker with a hungry expression, as if he wants to swallow him up. 

He kisses like that too, eagerly moving his tongue with that fucking stud against Tucker’s, biting down on his lip, his hands wandering freely over Tucker’s abs, legs, and chest. 

Tucker moans, and kisses back like his life depends on it. All the tension from the week feels like it’s sinking away, and for once all of the bad things seem to be gone. It’s just Felix, pulling his hair and his fingernails leaving lines down his chest and kissing him, and Tucker lets himself melt and fall to pieces. 

* * *

Lavernius Tucker is going to be so much fun to kill. Felix has known this for a while, known this since he first decided that if Locus got to fuck one of the idiots, he certainly got to, but now that he’s  _ actually  _ fucking him, he knows it even more. 

Felix presses his face against the crook of Tucker’s neck, laughing breathlessly as he keeps fucking him. Tucker is gripping the sheets tightly, trying not to touch himself, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark with sex. “C’mon Tuck,” he says, “give it to me, you know you want to.”

Tucker glares at him with those wide, expressive eyes of his and  _ fuck _ , Felix is going to savor this. He tries to imagine what Tucker’s face will look like when he finds out who Felix really is. Who it is he let into his room, into his bed, who he let get him on his back so  _ easy.  _ “Don’t call me— _ shit _ —Tuck, you asshole.”

“Make me,” Felix laughs, biting Tucker’s shoulder. Not as hard as he wants, not hard enough to draw blood—the thought of Tucker beneath him, bloody and writhing, his breath stuttering as he slowly bleeds out is such an appealing thought that Felix nearly loses control then and there, but he holds on, tightening his grip on Tucker’s hips. Tucker lets out a long, beautiful moan.

He’s ludicrously pretty, his long eyelashes fluttering as Felix keeps fucking him, breath hitching, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to hold out. But Felix wraps a hand around his dick and he has him. Tucker shouts, hips jerking up, back arching off the bed, eyes fluttering close, mouth falling open as he cries out while he comes.

Let Locus have Washington on his knees, all humiliated and obedient. Felix has  _ this _ , Tucker’s large brown eyes heavily lidded, hips thrusting enthusiastically, falling apart beneath him, a willing and eager participant in what he’s going to hate himself for one day, when he finds out the truth. In those precious few seconds between realizing and Felix killing him, Tucker will remember this; the strangled noises he’s making as he keeps bucking into Felix’s hand, the way he melts into Felix’s kiss, and the way Felix is pressing him into the mattress as he fucks him. 

Just thinking about the way that Tucker’s soft, open face will fall apart when he figures it out pushes Felix over the edge, and he digs his fingers harder into Tucker’s hip, grinning to himself. 

When he’s done, he falls over beside Tucker, smiling widely.  

“That was fucking awesome,” Tucker mutters. He’s boneless and giddy from his orgasm, but he still holds up his hand for Felix to high five. 

Felix obliges and grins.


End file.
